There are crowds and crowds of people waiting at Lahore to receive this train and the first loud words shouted over the top of the hullabulloo that I hear when I enter Lahore, are . . . . 'Ram Chander!! Ram Chander!?!'
previously published at The Chowk
http://www.chowk.com/Sports/Train-to-Pakistan-2004-Passage-To-Pindi
and in Outlook
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?223811
Prologue The salty brotherhood of seafarers is very strong, it oulasts the corrosive powers of two-thirds of the earth’s surface and often charts a course beyond the ultimate powers of nature. Early in life, people like us from all over the Tropics, including yours truly, learnt that above and below the latitudes of 40 degrees there are no laws and in the beauty of our world of shades of greys between black and white, beyond latitudes 50 degrees, there is no one God, either. When the Force 10 hits you abeam and the word rock and roll implies 45 degreees each way twice a minute, then it is up to all the Gods, you, your truths, and nature. There are no enemies except your own fears, and you always, but always, double check and back up on each other while still working as a team. You wait till there is good weather again to win points.
Raghu works, looks after baggage and paperwork, I observe. That’s truth, that’s teamwork, father-son style.
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Sentiment Within a week of publishing the first part of my travelogue, I get many emails. Two are reproduced here, with permissions:-
a) Did you try to obtain your mother’s degree in Pakistan? My mom too hails from there. In 1947 she and her other siblings and mother came to Ludhiana when the exodus had commenced but her father refused to leave his place of duty till his releiver came. He was Station Master of a Railway Station close to Pindi. People came to loot the station. He tried to defend but they were too many. He was slain. Gave his life defending property of a country which was not going to be his own in a day or two. He was a Thapar, first cousin of Sukhdev Thapar who was hanged with Bhagat Singh. My Grandfather’s name was Lala Amar Nath Thapar and he was Station Master of Abaspur (Near Lyallpur). (Rakesh Dhir, batchmate from the T.S. Rajendra)
b) Please remember me, I am Shahriyar, I was your cadet in 1980, I was glad to see your news. Please come to Turkey my Sir and I will give you my life for your news on Kurds and our long journeys. (Shahriyar Agighi, Kurdish cadet from Arya Lines/Iran)
Recent past Nitin Dhond of Belgaum, and I, sailed on the good ship, ultra large bulk carrier really, the mv SUMMIT, over 20 years ago. We did everything we should have, and much we shouldn’t have, too, together. Decades later, as part of this trip, while driving from Ooty towards Murree, my son and I are his guests at Wildernest, an upscale ecotel on property retrieved from degraded mining land, on the ocean facing side of the coastal mountains in Goa, that he conceptualised and built and now operates. Nitin’s family has been into politics for generations from the pre-1947 days, and also publish one of the West Coast of India’s oldest and most influential Marathi vernacular newspapers, the Tarun Bharat. In the evening, floating about, quaffing "Summits" invented by me, (2 parts beer and one part fresh kokum juice, the colour of violent crimson blood-red South Pacific sunsets) in his infiniti pool with the Belt of Orion above and the Arabian Sea below, we are at peace with the world. http://www.wildernest-goa.com gives you an idea.
The Belgaum Congress meeting of 1924 devised the outlines of the first tricolour flag for every Indian then, ir-respective of religion, creed or caste, under the Presidentship of Hakim Ajmal Khan. After a variety of evolutions, including a rejected demand for the gada (mace) of Vishnu, this tri-colour flag was then adopted by the Congress on the banks of the Ravi in Lahore on the 29th December 1929. The ochre, saffron or geru colour was included specifically as it symbolised an ideal common to Hindu yogis and sanyasis, was close to the shade of yellow demanded by the Sikhs and symbolised the colour revered by Muslim faqirs and darveshes.
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Wagah Immigration Hall, entry Pakistan, hot and stuffy, loud, mainly full of poor people.
2200-midnight, 15th April’04 Shunty’s vodka and bidi are coming in very useful as I sit and day-dream while looking at the green Pakistan flag displayed on the side of theimmigration hall. The sub-Continental habit of jumping lines and crowding on top of each other are further complicated by the rather odd arrangement at the visa counters. There is one line where about three people can stand abreast, like sardines. It is hemmed in by rusty metal railings with sharp edges. People are crushed in like passengers in a crowded local train. First you have to do Indo versus Indo and Pak versus Pak battle, separately in adjacent lines, to reach the front. Then, work done, to exit, you have to push through all the others, Indians and Pakistanis mixed, waiting in the mob trying to move ahead. After that is done, you have to leapfrog all the huge baggage that the regular passengers/couriers/savaarees have stockpiled, where else, right at the door which leads from Immigration towards the X-Ray machine room.
It is at times like this that I wish I was white. Somebody would have fetched me, I am sure. Since I am brown, and bearded to boot, I sit. A day’s worth of questions and visions comes back to me as I wait for the crowd to thin out.
Of people too poor to spend even 10 rupees on food waiting all day for the train to carry them to Pakistan. These are Indians and Pakistanis, going to meet relatives on the other side, ostensibly, but actually also trying to cut expenses and make ends meet by taking part in commerce.
Of people who only want to know more about Filmfare and where the actresses and actors hang out in Mumbai.
Of authorities on the train in India who stop people from taking Indian magazines out and authorities on the same train when we enter Pakistan who grab what manages to get out.
Of why Pakistani trains are still crudely hand-painted, using brushes. Of the Urdu journalists from Multan and my own surprise at their fluency in Punjabi as well as their viewpoint on the good things about India which we take for granted. An their observations on the bad things in India, too.
Of the sheer number of aged and inform people travelling by this train, or do they just look much older?
Of the flesh trade plying on this route, young girls, young boys and even wistfulchildren, how do I know, I just do, I was a shippie, I ask directly.
Of the very pretty middle-aged Kashmiri woman who kept eating all the time at Attari. Of the Laughter Club members, walking about, cheering people up.
Of the paan patta (betel leaf, OK) and pineapple courier to Karachi and his questions on sourcing Thailand vegetable for Lahore. Of the heat, dust, flies, mosquitoes, excreta.
And the final question - if not for sentimental reasons, then what am I doing here?
Raghu, getting impatient as well as hungry, moves on ahead, I just want to be last. He clears the crowd without any problems, pointing at me on being questioned, to a curious Immigration man, and is off through the X-Ray room towards Customs. Half an hour later, I get up, stretch my aching body a bit, and move forward slowly, now that there is hardly anybody left. The Immigration men here all seem to be overweight ex-Servicemen sporting paratroopers wings and insignia on their blue uniforms. The one closest to me has the smell of cheap booze on his perspiration.
My well-thumbed, multiple-world visaed and over-used machine readable passport seems to excite them a bit, and to add to the encounter, refuses to get itself read by their scanner. There is the faint hint of a touch, which I ignore. We go through the usual why what where series of questions, and I go through the standard cricket visaPakistan Lahore-Pindi-go-but-Jhung-no-go routine. We both agree that the Test, what is left of it, is a disaster. After trying to hit me for a bottle of booze that I don’t have, Larry stamps my passport and starts closing down what has, obviously, been a very long day for him.
Next, I sling my backpack on and roll my small suitcase onwards. And have a great get-back-into-form argument with a seedy looking rodent of a man trying to collect 10 rupees from everybody for the privilege of using or not using the station luggage trolleys. It is apparently the practice at Wagah to collect 10 rupees from everybody for using trolleys, even if they did not. I win my first argument in Pakistan, but am deflated when I learn that Raghu has already paid up anyway. I still have the receipt.
The X-Ray room is, bliss, air-conditioned. Not for long, though. Not finding anything inside to excite him, the man-behind-the-machine who is dressed in civvies, with about three hanger-ons likewise, asks me if I am carrying any alcohol. My answer, anjeer and kaju burfee, disappoints him, too, and Joe puts some secret chalk marks on my bags and sends me on for "examination".
Here I meet yet another gentleman in this sport, the Greatest Hunt for Booze. When I present him too with a negative, he asks me if I want to buy any. This is a new one on me, so I ask him, for the sake of accurate reportage, the cost. He puts forth the contention that 2000 Rupees (Indian) may be a good price for a bottle of Royal Stag, which on a good day would cost about 200/- Rupees in India if turpentine was not available. I consider asking Curly Moe if he will organise Bacardi by the peg but think better of it and head for the relatively cool and fresh air of the platform.
Wagah platform has a bank currency exchange counter, but it is shut, please go to the PCO stall. It has a small bathroom for travelers, but it is shut, the man with the key went home, ask the PCO stall, they may have a spare. There is some sort of "official"food stall which is shut, but you can go to the PCO stall who has a few small carts set up adjacent, selling an assortment of over-priced garbage. 10 rupees for one slim and stale samosa, 20 rupees for a weather beaten "Punjabi pizza", 20 rupees for a saucer of rice with some lentils in it, 20 rupees for a fake cola and 40 rupees for a litre of bottled water. Cash up front. I change some Indian money at an atrocious rate, and buy some rice and daal for some poor kids who have been on the train since Delhi, who are hanging around looking wistful.
Every now and then the PCO stall hands out meals and snacks and beverages without charge to the uniformed people around who demand it. Very nice.
Attari Station in India was bad, but at least there were a few taps, the stall there had prices published and a bottle of proper cold, water was for 10 rupees. Wagah Station inPakistan is one big rip-off, and the train staff have not switched the lights or fans on as yet either. Tap water is over, too. Luckily, formalities are over rapidly as everybody wants to go home, so by about 2315 hours, it is it is time to roll. People take positions in the train, and it moves towards Lahore, in the dark. Lights and fans operate sometimes on some sort of obscure and selective dim dynamo principle, relative to the speed of the train.
The Train moves, lurches actually, on its last legs, in more ways than one. The dust it kicks up is amazing and all-pervading, and I shall invite all Lahoris especially to please investigate this grand introduction to their city further. The reasons for this dust are, apparently, a total lack of social forestry, compaction of ballast below the rail tracks and some sort of chalk industries in the vicinity. Whenever we spot trees in the dark, we know we are moving next to yet another Army area. A few local Pakistanis point out the bridge over the canal till where the Indian Army had reached in 1971. Another one tells me that captured tanks are on display along the route, I am sure there are, but we can’t see much at night.
An assortment of minor "authorities" rummage up and down the train, looking for the people they have spotted and marked earlier. Wearing uniforms with name tags and insignia removed, they stride the train like demons or Gods. They help themselves to whatever their heart desires, the poorer the passenger, the more vicious the grab. This sector, the Wagah to Lahore and return, is going to be the lowest point of my complete trip, from a social perspective. Some things do not change, across borders, it seems.
It is now just about midnight Pakistan time, and the bright lights of the outskirts ofLahore are on us. As are the smells, which are like approaching any crowded city. We trundle past a level crossing which is backed up for almost a kilometre, if not more, and I note that organised chaos is the order of the day here, too. A shiny fully air-conditioned train, a gift from China we are told, is parked on the washing lines as we are slowly switching over the points entering the station. The platform has that typical dark feel about it. It is also clean. There are crowds and crowds of people waiting atLahore to receive this train and the first loud words shouted over the top of the hullabulloo that I hear when I enter Lahore, are . . . . "Ram Chander!! Ram Chander!?!"
A group of very rural looking men in white dhoties with big ear-rings and some also with big metal rings around their necks are bawling the Lord Ram Chander’s name at every carriage as it rolls past. I will never know if they found him, I presume this is a Hindu visiting or returning, but somehow, this is symbolic. Later on I am told that the ring around the neck symbolises bonded labour. I do not see men with rings around their neck again during my stay.
Midnight-0045, 16th April’04 We move with the dispersing crowd from the train to the platform to the overhead pedestrian bridge to the concourse off Platform 2 of LahoreRailway Station. I am keen to see this station from the outside. I leave Raghu with our new friends, grabbing a cold Coke while I walk out, ignoring the variety of taxi and three-wheeler drivers. I soak in the station and its appearance, somehow that satisfies me. On the way back, I see some policemen round up a couple of junkies doing their stuff and throw them, unprotesting, into the back of some sort of a Black Maria. Other than that, this is by aura and smell and sixth sense, a clean and safe place. I know I shall find my way about this burg without problems. Lahore Station at night is what Amritsar would be like if it was cleaner and less crowded. Any comparision by Delhi is totally misplaced.
But where are the street people, the pavement dwellers?
Raghu’s Bahai friends and the girls he has met are, obviously, Some Bodies. They have 3 huge big SUVs waiting for them at Lahore Station to take them across to Islamabad with their luggage. We, on the other hand, want to grab a quick look atLahore by night and move on, because we do want to hit Rawalpindi in time to see some cricket atleast. Our train friends suggest that Skyline or Niazi are amongst the better buses on the route, via Motorway. Daewoo, now Tata, is the preferred choice, but the Daewoo/Tata stand is supposed to be far away and not "through town". Skyways/Niazi win hands down. Our Multan friends help us negotiate with a chainsmoking elderly Punjabi gentleman, who settles for 80 rupees, we up the ante to a hundred for a guided tour, as well as assistance in securing good seats on the bus to Pindi, and off we go on the roller coaster that is a midnight 3-wheeler ride throughLahore. We bid farewell to all the people who have been part of our lives for the past 30 hours and scramble our separate ways. Our Multan friends insist on paying for the snacks, and the three-wheeler.
We are now in the 3-wheeler. Bargaining over, the driver is now our best buddy as well as saviour, and has handed over controls to a younger version. Younger version is told with a smart cuff to his ears that he is to look after honoured visitors, otherwise. We now roll. And how. After a few minutes of terror, I gather my wits and ask him what he thinks he is doing. In Punjabi it sounds better, something like this . . . "oye pencho maadercho fakir dee fudee dee aulad, tu phosdee de kur kee ryaa hai, tainoo malang dee tharrak chad gayee hai?
I am informed by the acrobat at the steering rod in a disparaging voice they reserve for people from Karachi, it seems, after more than a few suicidal attacks at entities bigger than him, that 3-wheeler drivers in Lahore do "dravery", and that this is "dravery". This game called "dravery", is a combination of driving and bravery, which I lack because I am from Karachi it seems? Raghu is sitting in front with the driver, grabbing a look at whatever the driver is telling him to look at between blowing on a horn suited more for barges on the Mississippi, I am busy back-seat driving and keeping my back teeth from floating. Raghu is salivating at the food stalls as they rush past, I am aiming for the 0030 bus towards Pindi, promising him all he can eat at the bus station, and the driver is breaking all land speed records and aiming for more human sacrifices from the bus station to go back to the railway station to aim for the Shalimar which is due atLahore at 0100 or something like that.
Facing Shoaib Akhtar may have been easier. We reach Niazi. We reach Skyline. We reach lurid honkytown in shades of pink and green and other violent colours of the night. I have never seen such brightly lit and decorated buses in my life. The only thing brighter I have seen, actually, were the Pachinko parlours in Japan. Many of these buses still carry the markings of whatever Japanese hotel or resort they originally belonged to. We buy our tickets without the usual push-pull that goes with such transactions in India. Some of our luggage goes into the cargo hold below the bus, where I see something - a portable jack is pressed up tight between the ladder chassis at the bottom and a double bottom below the seats, and the false bulkhead to hide it has come down. Having seen such things before in life, I know what they are there for, and just keep my mouth very very tightly shut. I think I now also know why the bus ticket is so cheap on this route, all of 180/- rupees per head, all inclusive, on a snazzy 2x2 air-conditioned luxury coach for almost 400 kilometres.
Raghu is disappointed at the quality of food available. Most of it is of the chips-colas-wafers variety. We sit down, and in due course the bus fills up and then starts moving, only to stop again right outside the bay. A couple of very angry looking men with long beards board the bus to provide us with benedictions for our safety and then launch into a long tirade about the sad fate awaiting Muslims. A collection box is passed around, and everybody seems to part with about 10 or 20 rupees. So do I. Nobody wants to be the odd person out.
0045-0530, 16th April’04 the bus moves along the outskirts of Lahore and then enters the access ramp for the motorway. It picks up some passengers from points near toll booths or other exits, who move in to sit on the folding fifth seat incorporated between the 2x2. A Sunny Deol-Preity Zinta potboiler, "Hero-The Spy", is scrolling through the credits on the television screen up front, and the audio is set to high, both volume and tone, with many people singing along as well as lip-synching the dialogues. From what I could make out, the movie has an anti-Pakistani pro-good Muslim theme, a storyline set in Canada with a lot of bare legs and huge bosoms, and action of the front stall kind.
A young man sitting across is moaning how his bottle of lemon-lime soda pop is fake and tastes like medicine. Said in chaste Punjabi, it sounds even funnier, and we have a conversation going soon. Another young man introduces himself to me as the Secretary for an Asociation of Blind cricketers. Everybody, almost, wants to talk with us about India. The air-conditioned bus cuts us off from reality, we doze off, and next thing I know, we are at some rest stop half-way. Raghu gets off to investigate, I keep snoozing.
Early morning, and we are off the Motorway, heading in towards Pindi. At this juncture, we have no idea of what we shall do next, once we get off the bus.
0530-0630, 16th April’04 disembark the bus at the Skyways stand outside Pindi, and we are surrounded by taxi drivers. Old tactic, ignore drivers, head for the vehicles, and select therein. We locate a fairly decent Maruti-800 equivalent and the driver, Maqsood, seems to be a decent sort. He uses a term, "baunee", which means first customer of the day in India too. We do a "baunee" rate of flat 100 rupees for a morning driving and speaking tour of Islamabad as well as hotel drop.
We head for the Marriot. Entry into the hotel is difficult, because the cricket teams are staying there, as are some Americans and other foreigners in town. At the counter we are told that they have no idea about our reservations, in any case they are full. Serena, likewise. Maqsood drives us past the big Mosque. He explains what Blue Area means, and takes us past Super, Jinnah and Jinnah Super. Cuts across to Ambassador, likewise, full of Indian media crew it seems. Best Western next, also full. But the Best Western manager helps us set up a good rate at the neighbouring Islamabad Regency, 2000 rupees per night with breakfast and no extra charge for the early check-in.
We tip Maqsood an extra 50/-, he has been a thorough gentleman throughout. If anybody wants his mobile number, ask me, I shall surely use his services the next time I am there.
0630-0930, 16th April’04 I am racing through this part because it has now been over 36 hours since I last saw a proper restaurant, a decent clean room with a shower, and a bed. But the 3rd Test is about to reach its early demise a few hours away too, so with great regret we decide that while we are still moving, we might as well continue. A bath and change and freshen up and a short power nap later, we are down at the restaurant, which is occupied largely by Gulf-labour kind of people who have had their flight to Muscat delayed.
The management of the hotel, meanwhile, is on full India hospitality alert. The languageis Punjabi with English. More photocopies of passports and visas. We are given the best table, with a view of the Club Road as well as edge of the Rawal Lake. A steward is assigned to us, even though there is a buffet where we can see cornflakes, milk and other staples. We ask him to suggest a good, better, breakfast, he goes into conference with the chef who comes up to meet us. We ask him to make anything, the way his mother did. He suggests a simple omlette with parathas, pickles, and fresh curd. We ask for coffee, he suggests tea. We are in mutual seventh heaven.
A few minutes later we are presented with parathas and omlettes the way my mother cooks them. This is one of the high points of our trip. Decades later, paratha making skills remain the same, it seems. Raghu has multiple breakfasts.
Next, we head for the stadium. Most people, including us, are stopped way outside, but some cars and people are allowed through. We head for the Pakistan CricketBoard mobile counter, where we are to exchange our printouts for our tickets. On the way, I spot the media-familiar face of a Retired officer from India, one of the known players on the Bangladesh theatre of operations in 1971, being driven through in a very big car accompanied by Pakistani brass with Pakistani military escort.
We have a seamless experience with tickets, multiple episodes of physical checking, tired smiles, there are uniforms and guns all over the place. Most place us as Indians before we open our mouths, and the welcome is visibly heartfelt. I spend some time exhanging greetings with all. So by the time we get in, the match has already begun, and when we finally walk into the Javed Miandad stands, the third wicket for the 2nd innings has just fallen. We can hear the "khatak-crack" sound as we enter.
As we move in kind of diffidently, looking like lost tourists, towards some seats, we are grabbed by some very rough looking bearded young men wearing green and dragged towards a young giant waving a big Pakistan flag. The young giant screams at us loudly in what sounds like gibberish, and propels us forward towards an even bigger and older man who is obviously the ring leader. We can see no more uniforms, it seems this stand has been taken over by the Jolly Green Giants with Huge Flags ofPakistan brigade, and the sound is deafening. Have we been kidnapped by fundoos out to avenge?
We have just been introduced to Chacha Green Cricket and his gang, the Barmy Army of Pakistan. Next to Chacha Green Cricket is an urbane Sikh and a very noisy Tamilian gentleman with a tri-colour cap on his head. Everybody is screaming loudly, and the television cameras are suddenly in our face.
"Balaji hun jaan do, saadee vaaree aan do".
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